“ ilc ^(hfcpc-^hicfe: ” 


AN 

HISTORICAL BALLAD, * 

IN 

ELEVEN BLEATS, 

. by 

“Ye Greeshian PoetteP 

. - c . -vVvc-^ 



“Baa! Baa! black sheep; 

Have you got auy wool? ”— Lamb. 


[seventh EDITION.] 




CONCORD: 

\ Ramsbottom, Publisher, % 
v 1855. 

To whom all Orders should he addressed. Price, 
One Dollar per Hundred. 






PROEM. 




The author of this little poem, Mr. John C. Moore, 
one of the reporters of the Boston Journal, came to 
New Hampshire as a stenographic reporter of the 
proceedings of the Legislature for the New Hamp¬ 
shire Patriot, a democratic newspaper, and per¬ 
formed his labors so satisfactorily, that his reports 
at once superseded all others; aud he received the 
congratulations and friendship of all the members 
of the Legislature, and others of both political 
parties. His success, however, aroused the anger of 
George Gilman Fogg, who controlled the Indepen¬ 
dent Democrat, and was unable to make or to 
secure correct legislative reports for his journal. 
He therefore commenced assailing Mr. Moore in his 
paper, calling him “apaddy from Cork,” accusing 
him of intemperance, and in his usual style of vitu¬ 
peration, hurling at him all the ill-mannered lan¬ 
guage he could command, hoping in this way to 
drive him from New Hampshire, and to deprive the 
public of the benefit of his full and faithful reports. 

Thus violently and unjustly attacked, Mr. Moore, 
instead of retreating, began to inquire into the ante¬ 
cedents of such an Ishmaelite as Fogg had proved 
himself to be. The members of the legislature 
_ rallied to his assistance; and the members from 
.Pittsfield, Barnstead, Gilmanton, and New Hampton, 
* and others, succeeded in procuring for him the 
• * materials for the entire history of his assailant, which 
Mr. Muore wove into verse, and the following poem, 
“Ye Scheepe-Thiefe’’ is the result of his labors. 
Hereafter, Fogg’s newspaper will be known as “ The 
Ishmaelite,” and its editor as “Ye Scheepe-Thiefe.” 


“YE SCHEEPE-THIEFE.’’ 


i 

» 

’Tis of a scowndrell scheepe-thiefe, 

In Pyttesfielde towne lived hee, 
And of hys flockepf black scheepe 
Qubilk countyd three times three. 

And of hys love for muttone, 

And sundrie othyr thynges, 

Ye scheepe-thiefe coveted and stole — 
Ye tireeshian Poette synges: — 


BLEATT FYRSTE. 

Nyne farmers met! in Pyttesfielde towne 
Upone a trayninge-daye, 

And, after shakynge handes all rounde, 
One to ye reste dyd saye: — 

“ My scheepe I countyd yesternyghte — 
And eke ye prevyous daye — 

And everye tyme I countyd yem, > 

I found one scheepe awaye.” 




4 


Oute spoke ye seconde farmer manne— 

A rough-spunne manne was hee: — 

“ Dod darn ye thi'eyyn’ rogue! ” hee said, 

“ Whoever hee mote bee; 

“ Of scheepe, I had mee twenty-fyve 
Before yis Maye begunne ; 

¥owe, in ye midmoste daye yereoff, 

I counte butt twenty-one! ” 

“ I’ve loste a lambe! ” ye thyrde manne sayde; 
Ye fourth sayde — “ I’ve loste three! ’’ 

And all ye farmers cryed amain — 

“ And soe have allsoe wee! ” 

“ Bye Godfrie! ” swore ye rough-spunne manne, 
“ Did I ye tliiefe butt knowe — 

He’d hange as lryghe as Haman dyd 
Before nexte fall of snowe! ” 

Thenne oute and spoke a deaconne manne — 
Who aged was and wyse — 

“ To finde oute who ye thiefe mote bee 
Perpensione I advyse: 

9 

“Ye huntesmanne cannot fynde ye deere 
Without hys faythfull dogges; 

Ye farmer cannot selle his wooll 
Who only sheares hys hogges: 


5 


“ Ye manne he maye not muttone eate, 

Who’ll neyther rayse nor buye 
Ye scheepe-meate vvhyche hys cellar filles — 
What thynke yee? — thu.* f 'fehynko I: 

“And who is hee fat muttone eates? 

Sells wooll toe buye hym rumrn? 

Yet keeps noe scheepe?’’-Ye rough-spunne 

manne • 

Cried out — “ ’Tis PHOGGE, by Gumm!” 


BLEATT SECONDE. 

Yis Phogge he was an Ishmaylyte, 

A full-bloodrfZingaree;' 

IIys hande was rays’d on every manne, 
And every hand on hee. 

Hys shantee stoode wythin a swampe, 
(Whiche Greeshians calle a bogge), 

And not a manne in Pyttestielde towne 
Dyd hobb or nobb with Phogge. 

• 9 ' 

Noe lawfull labo/e e’re dyd hee, 

Noe honeste wage hee won; 

Hys liandy-crafte — whate’er itt was — 
Bequyred noe lyghte of sunn. 



6 


Some symple people wonder’d muche 
How liee hy6 lyvinge mayde; 

But ye wyser ’monge ye Pyttesfielde menne 
Knew thievynge ^vas hys trayde. 

Who cockes, and henns, and duckes, and geesse, 
And scheepe, and pigges as well, 

And corne, and beanes, and pumpkyngs stole, 
Ye Pyttesfielde menne poulde tell. 

Phogge often feathers solde, and wooll, 
(Especially wooll solde he); 

Ye farmers, marks were seen yereon, 

As plaine as marks coulde bee. 

Ye fox was blam’d for robbynge^roostes — 

For killynge scheepe, ye dogge; 

But both were ynnocent yereoff— 

Both foxe and dogge was Phogge. 

And whatt ye farmer menne resolv’d — 

And whatt to yem befelle 

Ye next succeedynge chapters off 
Yis chronikell will telle.* 


» 


7 


BLEATT THYRDE. 

Ye deacone mann liee dyd propose 
(And ye farmers dyd agree), 
f Yat from yeir number yey shoulde choose 
A commyttee of three, 

Whose duty itt shoulde bee to fynde 
Y r e scowndrell scheepe-thiefe, Phogge, 
And tayke sterne meanes to ryd yem off 
Yat twice unhallowed rogue. 

I Ye rough-Bpunne manne was one of yem — 
Ye deacone, he mayde two — 

And Ephraime Garlande was ye thirde — 
And all goode menne and true. 

And every nyghte yey watchyd Phogge — 
At leaste a weeke or more — 

Butt oute hys shantye ne’er peep’d hee, 

For of muttone hee had store. 

) Att laste, hys hunger banysh’d slothe, 

Hys stolen stocke runn lowe} 

And manye mouthes hadd hee to feede — 
(Ill weeds doe fastest grow). 


8 


And forthe sneak’d hee, one earlie morne, 

Wlienn koneste menne dyd sleepe, 

And oute ye rougli-spuune manne hys flbcke, 
Phogge stole yt» fynest sclieepe. 

All! little recked ye scowndrell thiefe, 

Watched was hys wycked deede, 

Nor dreamed hee of ye punishmente 
Impendynge o’er hys heade. 

Hee cross hys shouldere threwe ye scheepe, 

And for hys sliantye raune: 

“.Dod darn ye cussed thievynge rogue! ” 

Hyssed oute ye rough-spunne manne. 

Phogge reached hys shantye — stumbled inn, 
And boltyd faste ye doore; 

Ye rough-spunne manne drove bolte and barre 
Ryglite inn upone ye doore. 

“ Yield up yat scheepe! ” ye rough-spunne 
manne 

Yelled oute as loud’s myght bee; 

But Phogge — dispisygne yat advyce — 

In bedd ye scheepe placed hee. 




9 




BLEATT FOURTHE. 

« 

Phogge wrapp’d ye scheepe qp inn ye quyUt— 
“ Yey won’t looke yere, I swow! ” 

Quod bee, and turn’d kym rounde aboutt 
Toe see wkatt mayde ye rowe. 

And then came inn ye Pyttesfielde menne — 

Ye deacone inn ye vanne, 

Wytli Ephraime Garlande followynge hym, 

And laste, ye rougk-spunne manne. 

Yen oute and spake ye deacone manne: — 

“ Fryende Phogge, ye eygktke commande 
Expresslie says thoue sbouldyst nott 
Toe thievynge putt thy kande,” 

(Ye scheepe beneathe ye bed-quyltt tlienn 
To struggyl dyd begynn — .* 

“ Lye stylle! George Gilman 1” Phogge kesayd, 
“Nor make such uncouthe dynn! ”) 

Yen oute and spake Eph. Garlande nexte — 

And an angrie maim was hee: — 

“ Gyve up yat scheepe, or thoue shaltt swynge 
Upone ye nearestt tree! ” 


* 


10 


(Ye scheepe beneathe ye quyltt ye whyle 
Its struggyls dyd renewe — 

“ My chylde bathe choliclc ,” Phogge hfie sayde,— 

“ Lye etyll, my darlynge, doe! ”) 

Ye rough-spunne mann yn wrathe bee cryed, 

“ Thou measlie sonne of Cainne1 
Yielde upp yat scheepe, or never thou 
Shaltt see dayelyghte agayne!” 

(Ye scheepe beneathe ye quyltt agayne 
Dyd struggyl furyouslee — 

“ Lye styll, George Gilman! ” Phogge hee cryed, 
Or whypp’d thoultt surelie bee! ”) 

Ye rough-spunne manne he rays’d hys fygte, 

And dealtt toe Phogge a blowe — 

Who cryed lyke toe a chylde, and sayd, 

“ Boute 6cheepe I nothynge knowe! ” 

(Ye«cheepe whych lay belowe ye quyltt, 

One hynder legg gott free, 

And kyck’d ye quyltt yntoe ye floore — 

“ Baa!” quod ye scheepe — quod hee). 

“ Bye Godfrie! ” swore ye rough-spunne manne , 1 
And loude and longe laughed hee — 

“ Suche homes upone a lyttle chylde, 

I swowe, 1 ne’er dyd see 1 ” 


• 11 




Phogge turned hym pale as anye scheet — 
Hys courage cowarde play’d — 

Hee knettt hym downe upone hys knees, 
And fulle confessyone mayde: — 


> 

BLEATT FYFTHE. 

“Oh, mercye! mercye!” Phogge ymplored — 
“And pytye onn mee tayke; 

Lett mercye all youre bowells move, 

For mye poore chyldrenn’s sayke! ” 

I To yis ye rough-spunne man replied: — 

( “ No bo well letfte have I — 

Wythe chyldren borne wythe ram’s-hornes onn 
I owne noe sympathye.’ , 

“Oh,mercye! mercye!’’ whynedout Phogge — 
“ Your heartes lett pytye move; 

I stole ye scheepe — I love scheepe-meate 
Withe uncontrollyde love ! ”■ 

\ Yen oute and spoke Eph. Garlande, and 
“ Dod rott ye love! ’’ quod hee, 

“ Yat leanes ytt onn a toughe olde ramm—. 

As toughe as toughe cann bee! ’’ 



% 


12 


“ Itt’s nayture! ” — quycklye answer’d PhogGE, 
“ Fore kystorye tells off yore' 

Mye ancestore*, fore stealynge scheepe, 

Were banyshed England’s shore.” 

Xtt’s nayture ! ” quod ye rough-spunne manne— 
“ And ne’er was playner facte; 

Yat yvliatt ys bredde wythynn ye bonne 
From ye fiesclie yee can’tt extracte.” 

And thenn y,e deacone manne spoke oute: — 

“ Ye wise rnanne he discernes, 

Yat juste as ye olde cocke will crowe, 

Ye youngere chickynge learnes.” 



“ Yat’s true! ” sayde Phogge ; “ myefathere stole 
Hys ini ttone, fatt and goode; 

Hee loved itt — soe doe I — yerfore 
Scheepe-stealynge’s in my bloode. 

“ Suche ys ye consanguineous strengthe 
Off ye familye alloye, 

Yat Baa ! Baa! were ye earlyeste wordes 
Ere spoke bye George, my boye.” 


Yenn oute and spoke ye rough-spunne manne: — 
“ Yee devyll’s breed yee bee, 

And lazy, thievynge, drinking scumm 
Off fouleste fllthe are yee! 


13 




“ 1 recke mee nott yaft yee shoulde hange, 

Or yet in prysone lye; 

But out yis towne, two-fortye speede, 

Bye Godfrie l yee shall hye.” 

, “ Tayke mye advyse,” ye deacone sayde — 
“Mayke trackes without delaye, 

Or inn ye scheriffe’s handes thou’lt bee, 

Ere daylyghte faydes away! ” 

“Packe upp your trapps!” Eph.Garlande sayde — 
“ And quycklye thee departe, 

Or I swarr, bye alle yat swarrynge’s worth, 

/ Thou’lt rue it inn thyne hearte! ” 

And yenn outspake ye rough-spunne manne: — 
“Picke upp yatt ramm ! ” said hee, 

* And carrye itt backe toe whence itt came, 
Thou thievjmge rapparee! ” 

Yen shoulder’d PhogcSe ye toughe old ramm, 
And did whatt hee was tolde 5 
And what dyd happenn afterwardes, 

\ Yis tale ytt will unfolde. 

f 


14 




BLEATT SYXTHE. 

Ye farmers nyne yn Pyttesfielde mett 
Ere ye monthe off Maye hadd gonne, 

And ye commyttee mayde yeir reporte 
Of whatt wythe Phogge yey’d donne. 

’Twas movyde, yenn, and secondyde, 

Yat resolvyde yt slioulde bee, 

Yat ye farmers’ thankes were justlye due 
Untoe ye commyttee. 

Soe beeynge putt untoe ye vote, 

Ye motionne passed crim. con., 

And ye farmers wentt toe likker upp, 

Well pleas’de wytb whatt was donne. 

And whenn untoe ye rumm-shoppe doore 
Ye farmer menno hadd come, 

Whoe dydd yey see butt Phogge ynsyde, 
Exchayngyng wooll fore rumme. 

When Phogge heesawe ye farmer menne, 
Wythe feare hys lymbes dyd shayke — 
Eache unkempt hayre uponne hys heade 

Stoode styflf as anye stayke! 
******* 


15 


Yey founde a poolle yn Sunkooke’s streame — 
Was term feete deepe and more, 

And yey dragg’de ye scheepe-thiefe throughe 
and throughe, , 

Nyne tymes from shore toe shore. 

Yey layde hym downe uponne ye banke, 

Where ye grasse was freshe and greene— 

“ Bye Godfriel ” saydo ye rough-spunne manae, 
“ Hee’s kycked ye buckytt cleane! ” 

“ And yett yt cannott bee ye case, 

Yatt ye buckytt kyck’d has hee; 

Fore hee yat’s borne fore toe bee hang’de 
Hee shalle nott drownyd bee! ” 

Yenn oute and spake ye deacone manne : — 

“ I hope yat Phogge wyll live; 

Fore, rayther yann ye manne shoulde die, 

One halfe mye flocke I’d gyve! ” 

Eph. Garlande nexte spake oute and sayde: — 

“ Yis busynesse does looke badd; 

I’d gyve ye beste scheepe inn mye stocke 
Noe hande yn ytt I’d hadd! ” 

Oute spoke ye farmers, one bye one, 

And eache one sayge ye sftme ; 

And ev’n ye rough-spunne manne begann 
Toe thynke hee was toe blayme. 


16 


Yen alle att once upp startyd Phogge, 

And toe ye menne dyd saye: — 

“ Lett eache manne gyve toe mee a stjheepe, 

And I’ll tayke.alle blayme awaye 1 

“ And, furthyrmore, I’ll leave ye towne, 

And-back I ne’er shalle come.” 

“ Eye Godfrie! ” swore ye rough-spunne manne, 
“Ye sclieepe are thyne, bye gumm I ” 

Ye farmers yenn dyd alle agree, 

Eache manne hys pledge toe keepe, 

Toe meete yn Pyttesfielde towne nexte noone, 
And eacbe one brynge a scheepe. 

Ye rough-spunne manne (whenn by yemselves) 
Suggested ys one thjmge, — 

In bryngyng eacbe one of a scheepe, 

A blacke-scheepe each shoulde brynge. 


BLEATT SEVENTIIE. 

* 

Whatt styrs ye folkes in Pyttsfielde towne ? 

Whatt brynges ye crowdes yerein ? 
Whatt maykes ye cala^humpyann bande 
Kycke up suche fearfulle dynn ? 



17 


Why dothe ye people gather rounde, 

And heynyous upproare keepe? 

Yey laughe toe see ye farmer menne — 

Eache manne wythe hys black scheepe. 

Nott younge and tendyr are ye scheepe, 

{ Butt crustye, toughe olde ramms; 

Fore manye yeares have pass’de awaye 
Synce yese olde ramm’s were lambes. 

“ Bye Godfrie! ’’ sayde ye rough-spunne manno — 
“ Wythynn mye olde ramm’s fleece 
. You cannott fynde as muche off fatt 
As mote a gymblette grease! ” 

' Eph. Garlande sayde, “ Tayke mye olde ramme, 
Hym stewe, and roaste, and boyle — 

Fromm oute hys carkayse you can’tt tayke 
One thymble-fulle off oyle! ’’ 

Yenn oute and spoke ye deacone mann — 

Hys wordes most guardyd were : — 

“ Yatt mye olde ramm hee is nott fatt, 

I thynke I maye ynferr.” 

And nexte spoke oute a farmer manne — 

And a waggyshe manne was hee: — 

“ Mye ramm’s as thynn as anye two 
Olde ramms I e’er dyd see! ” 




18 


Wliatt horrydd musyck’s yattwe lieare? 

Whatt fore yatt fearfull dynu? 

What meanes ye crowde off shoutynge youthe? 
Who come ye towne wythynn? 

Whatt famylie sitts yntoe ye carte, 

Ye whyche tenn oxen drawe ? 

And who ye boye ye carte wythinn 
Ye scheepe-schanke bone dothe gnawe? 

Itt is ye calathumpyann bande 
Roughe musycke who dyscusse, 

Fore ye processyone whyche dyrectt 
Ye scheepe-fhiefe’s exodus. 

Phogge’s famylie sitt wythinn ye carte — 

Ye ranke scheepe-stealynge rogue! — 

Ye lyttle boye, ye bone who gnawes, 

Is younge George Gilman Phogge. 

Yey’ve dry^fen Phogge, wythe hys black scheepe* 
Across ye Pyttesfielde lyne, 

And a curse hym gave wythe everye scheepe — 
So ye curses yey were nyne. 

Ye deacone and ye rough-spunne manne, 

Eph. Garland®, and ye reste 

Off ye honest menne in Pyttsfielde towne, 

Dyd solemnlie proteste: 


19 


Iff ever yey shoulde Phogge agayne 
Wythinn yeir borders see, 

Wyth a hemppen cravatt rounde hys necke, 
Hyghe bangyd hee shoulde bee. 

Phogge bente hys stepps towards ye northe; 
And, ever synce yat day, 

Frome Pyttesfielde and ye rough-spunne manne 
Hee has keptt hymselfe awaye. 

. , , V \ 1 i i . 

[Ye rough-spunne manne a Senatore 
Becayme (from number foure), 

Fyph. Garlande Representatyve, 

' And ye deacone Councyllore. 

In ye Compylede Statutes maye 
Yeir statesmanshyppe bee seene: 

Chapter two hundredd twentye-nyne, 

And section mark’d thyrteene.] 

And gladnesse was wythe Pyttesfielde menne, 
Fore off Phogge yey hadd gott cleare ; 

Bu\tt yatt woe awayts New Hamptone folks, 

Yis tale wyll mayke appeare. 



20 


BLEATT EYGHTHE. 

In Barnsteade manye chyckynges young# 

Dyd mourne yeir mothers gone; 

And manye an orpliann lambe dyd blaatt 
On ye hills off Gilmantone; 

And geess gott scarce yn Meredythe, 

And turkeys fatt and fayre: 

Butt woe fell on New Hamptone, fore 
Phogge pytched hys shantye there! 

Ye farmers watchyd all ye nyghte, 

And yey watchyd all ye daye; 

Butt wythe all ye watchynge yey coulde watche, 
Yeir scheepe were ta’en awaye! 

Why cockes and henns, and duckes and geess, 
And lyttle pygges as well, , 

And come and beanes and pumpkings too, 
Departyd, none coulde tell. 

Whenn manye yeares hadd pass’d and gonne, ' 
And ye untrayn’d bratts off Phogge, 

Hadd nighe to womenne grown and nienne — 
Lyke ranke weedes inn a bogge; 


21 


Itt happen’d, once upone a tyme, 

George Gilman 6 toode besyde 
A farmer manne as hee dyd tayke 
From off a scheepe the hyde. 

“ Now tell mee,” sayde ye farmer ma ne — 
f As ye knyfe dyd flouryshe hee — 

“ If youre old mann can dresse a scheepe 
E’en halfe as well as mee ? ” 

“Can’t tell!” George Gilman sayde, “for 
whenn 

I’ve gone toe bedd att nyghte, 

Downe cellar dothe mye father dresse 
I Bys scheepe bye candle-lyghte 

“ Aha ! ” thenn sayde ye farmer manne, 

And thenn “ Oho!! ” sayde hee — 

“ Fore manye syngular thynges off late 
Yatt facte accounts toe mee! 

“ Where pasturethe thye father’s scheepe? 

Howe manye dothe hee owne? ” 

George Gilman ynnocentlye sayde — 

“ Off scheepe, we have gott none! ” 

\ 

George further tolde yatt, salte and freshe, 

Off muttone yere was store 
Att home, and eke assortyd wooll, 

Two hundryd weights and more. 

J 


22 


“ Thy father stealyth othyrs’ scheepe! ” 

The farmer manne hee sayde — 

‘'And what’s ye harm?” George Gilman 
ask’de — 

“ Scheepe-stealynge’s father'8 trayde ! ” 

Ah! suche ye power off practysed vice, 

In banyshynge off schayme, 

Tatt conscyence hardyned wyll become 
’Gainst every sense off blayme! 

Bad preceptes have a damnynge power 
Uponn ye soules off menne; 

Butt, where bad precepte kyllethe one, 

Example kyllethe tenne. 


BLEATT NYNTHE. 

“ Gett eaoutt!” exclaymed ye farmer manne— 
“Evaporate ! v quod hee; 

“ Toe urge toe mee suche vyle excuse, 

A brazen face have yee! ” 

George Gilman quycklye turn’d hym rounde, 
And quycklye dydd departe, 

Butt a gambrelle hytt hym on ye heeles, 

Where lyethe George’s hearte. 



23 


“ I have lyvyde ” — sayde ye farmer manne — 

“ Nyghe onn toe fyftye yeare, 

But suche a shameless plea, I awowe! 

I never yett dydd heare. 

“ I’ve loste mye lambes, mye pigges, mye henns, 
Soe have mye neyghbors too; 

And hee who maykes our loss hys trayde, 

Hys liandycrafte shall rue! ” 

Excytyd was ye farmer manne, 

And woundylie be swore, 

Whenn upp dyd come ye mynistere 
Untoe ye farmer’s doore. 

“ Oh, sweare nott! ” quod ye mynistere — 

In mylde rebuke hee spoke — 

“ But untoe me I praye come telle 
Whatt dothe thyne wrathe provoke? ” 

Ye farmer manne ye mynistere 
Tolde what George Gilman sayde: 

Yat ho we scheepe-stealynge itt hadd beene 
Hys father’s onlye trayde. 

Ye mynistere spoke oute and sayde: — 

“ Yat Phogge I knowe toe bee 

A heathene manne—noe moral sense 
Off upryghtnesse hathe heej 


24 


“ Toe worke, hys backe hee wyll nott bende — 
Toe wante, be won’tt beebounde — 

And sympathye inn suche a case 
Is spyltt onn stonye grounde. 

“ Some honeste naenne sterne Povertye 
Have strenuouslye defyede, 

And stolen rather yan goe begg; 

(Mysguidvde bye'yeir pryde). 

“ O’er suche will Pytye wype itts eyes, 

And generouss heartes lamente; — 

(Toe carrye oute suche sympathyes 
Heav’n Charitye hathe lente;) 

“ Fore hym whoe hathe ye power off goode, 
And dothe hys gyfte neglecte, 

And thwarte itt evil workes toe doe, 

Hath Feelynge noe respecte.” 

I 

Ye farmer manne yese wordes hee hearde, 
And toe yemm added hee: — 

“ Before another weeke dothe pass, 

Phogge shall detectyd bee! ” 

He callyde onn ye seelecte-menne, 

“ Ye Constabel ” likewise, 

All menne off “ functionne,” who, off course, 
Coulde gyve hym goode advyse. 


25 


Yey yen a plotte amonge yem layde — 
A plotte whyche workyde welle; 
And whatt ye plotte, and itts resulte, 
Ye nexte bleatt itt shalle telle. 


BLBATT TENTHE. 

Yey tooke toe yemm a fyne fatt scheepe, 
And toe a stayke itt tyede, 

Quyte close untoe ye sliantye where 
Ye scheepe-thiefe dyd abyde. 

And whenn ye nyghte hadd growne as darke 
As Tophett’s innmosto deepe, 

Yey inn a scheepe-skynn stytch’de a pigge, 
And exchayng’de itt fore ye scheepe. 

“ I’ve beene toe Bostynge sundrie tyrnes,”— 
Ye farmer, laughynge, sayde; 

“ Inn Portlando, too, I’ve often beene, 

And done a powere of trayde; 

“ And manye a curyous syghte I’ve seene, 
Whyche caus’do mee muche surpryse; 

Butt, on suche a breede off scheepe as yatt 
I’ve never caste myne eyes! ” 



26 


Yey layde yem downe upone ye grounde, 
And keene watche dydd yey keepe j 

Fore everye one expectyde Phogge 
Toe come and steale ye scheepe. 

Nor dyd yeir expectatyones fayle; 

Fore, bye and bye, came Phogge — 

Hee cutt ye rope, and, shoulderynge itt, 
Off ranne hee wythe ye hogge. 

As loude as roars ye oceann storme, 
Whyche saylors’ graves dygges deepe, 

Soe loudlye roared ye animale 
Whyche Phogge tooke fore a scheepe. 

As loude as dothe a cannone roare, 

Or as Jacke-asse dothe braye, 

Soe loudlye roar’de ye strugglynge hogge 
Whyche Phogge hee bore awaye. 

Ye louder yatt ye hogge dyd roare 
Ye quycker Phogge hee ranne; 

Butt “ Ye Constabel” ranne fastere, and 
Soe dyd ye farmer manne! 

Ye darkness itt was denselye thycke 
As ye chase pass’de o’er ye grounde; 

Butt whatt off syghte ye chasers lack’de 
Was made upp bye ye sounde. 


27 


Ye manne maye nott goode musycke mayke 
Whoe science scornes , tis cleare; 

Butt noughte may hynder menn toe catche 
A scheepe-thiefe by ye eare. 

Ye pigge itt roar’de, and ye thiefo hoe ranne 
Tyll hee trypp’de agaynste a stumpe. 

And o’er itt, wythe ye pygge, dyd falle 
Intoe a dytche ker-slumpe ! 

Yey have caughte ye scheepe-thiefe by ye throate 
And have tyede hymm harde and faste; 

And “ Ye Constabel,” wythe all due speede, 
Hathe Phogge in prysone caste. 

Noe fryendes hadd hee toe sympathyze 
Wythe hymm, or fynde hymm bayle; 

Soe, till yis storye dothe proceede, 

We’ll leave ye rogue in jayle. 


BLEATT ELEVENTHE. 

Whenn manye dayes hadd pass’de and gone, 

Ye Courte-tyme dydd come rounde, 

And ye jurye-menne, wythe small delate, 

A bill ’gaynste Phogge yey founde. 

0 



28 


Now Phogge hadd hyrede a lawyere manne 
A pleader bolde was hee — 

And everye pounde off wooll was solde 
Toe paye yis lawyere’s fee. 

[Fore, ’tis notoriouslye true— 

And every manne hee sees— 

Yatt lawyeres cann bee hyred to do 
Im-pos-sy-by 1-y-ty es.] 

Yis lawyere hadd afljnitye 
Fore whatt eoncernede wooll; 

Polytycallye he’de been taughte 
Wythyn ye Free Soyle schooll. 

“ Nott guiltye! ” Phogge hee pleaded, and 
Ye tryall dydd proceede, 

And ye New Hamptone farmer swore 
Untoe Phogge’s thievynge deede. 

“Ye Constabel” hee alsoe swore, 

And ye seelecte-menne as welle, 

Yatt Phogge hadd stolenn off ye pigge 
Inn ye waye yis tale dothe telle. 

Ye roughe-Spunne manne — ye deacone too 
And Eph. Garlande dydd come downe, 

And sweare untoe ye thievysche tryckes 
Off Phogge in Pyttesftelde towne. 


29 


Ye wytnesses toe charactere, 

Yeir testymonye ranne 

Toe prove yatt Phogge a sluggarde was, 

And a schameless, thievynge manne. 

Ye jurye hymm convyctede, and 
Toe pry son Phogge hee wente — 

A journeye whyche liee hadd nott mayde 
Unless he hadd beene sente. 

Ye scheriffe schacklede Phogge, and caus’de 
Hym to Stayte’s Prysone goe: 

Ye Wardenne sayde •. — “ What trayde would ye 
Selecte T I wan to toe knowe ?” 

/ 

Untoe yls wishe dydd Phogge replye — 

** Synce worke I muste, 1 crave, 

Scheepe-stealynge yatt ye lett mee do, 

’Tis ye onlye trayde I have.” 

Butt ye scheepe-walke inn ye prysone yarde 
Itt was nott wello supplyedo; 

Butt ye butchere-meate dydd Phogge cut up 
Untoe ye dayo hoe dyede; 

Fore dye hee dydd (as all men will), 

And wythe hys lateste groane 

Hee sayde: — “ Gyve mee a mouthefulle, praye, 
Fromm qff"yat scheepe-schanke bone /” 


30 


Hys famylye, lyke ye Ishmaolytes, 

Are scatter’de farr and wyde; 

And ever manage to espouse 
Dysorganyzatyone’s syde. 

George Gilman tooke toe merchandyze, 
Oute off ye common tracke; 

Inn wooll hee traydes extonsy vlye, 

But hee onlye deales inn blacke. 


MORAL. 

# 

Yere is an olde storye 
Been oftenn hearde tolde: 

Yatt a manno toe learne wisdome 
Is never too olde. 

Ye truthe off ye proverbe 
Maye some folkes descrye: 
u Yatt itt alwayes is beste 
Toe lett sleepynge doggs lyel” 


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Opinions of the Press 


« 


“Ye Scheepe-Thiefe” ought to be issued 
in connection with Lamb's works. — Boston 
Times. 

The greatest poem since the days of John 
Milton. — Keene Daily Sentinel. 

“Ye Scheepe-Thiefe ” will ever hereafter 
stand at the head of the list of classic poetical 
productions. — Bostoti Evening Atlas. 

As good as wheat.— Brattleboro\Vt.) Daily 
Eagle. 

The most interesting history of modern 
times is “Ye Scheepe-Thiefe.” — Clarke's 
Mirror. 

The author is a full-blood Milesian, and an 
honor to his adopted country. We have read 
the epic, and have been struck with the force 
of its details.— Concord Democrat. 

No library should be without a copy of this 
splendid production.— Coos Daily Democrat. 

The seventh edition, making now 140,000 
copies, has just been published. “Ye 
Scheepe-Thiefe” is deservedly the most 
popular work of the day. — Concord Daily 
Reporter. 



